Saturday, October 22. 2011

Today was a shift unlike any I've had in recent memory. It wasn't that I had a bad assignment; a pharyngoplasty two days out and three grownups who could, for the most part, express their needs and didn't have a lot of care to give is a great set of patients. Except it's never that easy, is it? Of course one of my patients only spoke obscure tribal languages, and the only other person around who spoke those same languages was another patient (not mine) who also only spoke French. I didn't really hesitate, since the kid who had had a pharyngoplasty (a nasty surgery, by any account) was vomiting on the other side of the room, and pulled the French-speaking patient to the bedside of my old man so I could do a quick assessment. That other patient has apparently been here long enough that he started anticipating my questions, and was able to tell me not only that my old man had opened his bowels, but what the consistency of said action was.

That being sorted, I turned to Alpha, my poor little man in Bed Twelve. He was a sorry sight, with a soft plastic 'trumpet' in one nostril so he could breathe, a feeding tube in the other, an IV of morphine running into one little hand, and a pathetic look on his face. Although, to be fair, if you had a flap from the back of your throat cut off and sewn to the top of your mouth, you'd probably look a little pathetic, too. It was one thing after another with Alpha today; everything I put down his feeding tube came right back up, and since kids aren't really picky about where they vomit, he got numerous baths and two complete linen changes.

All of this would have been fine, honestly, if it hadn't been for Fanta Man in Bed One. He wasn't my patient, but it quickly became apparent that he was everyone's problem. He started the shift with a heartrate over 130 (not good) and breathing that sounded like a sick duck (very not good). He was becoming increasingly confused (also not good, although in my case it's fairly normal), and wouldn't keep the oxygen mask on his face. Just try, if you can, to picture the scene. An elderly gentleman with his gown around his waist and his head wrapped up in a huge white bandage sitting on the side of his bed. A wheelchair is waiting to take him to x-ray, and there are at least five nurses and doctors around the bed. Sheets in absolute disarray, monitor showing crazy numbers, egg smeared all over the floor (not sure how that happened), and a puddle of something best not mentioned on a family blog also all over that floor. And in the middle of all this sits Fanta Man, oxygen mask firmly pulled away from his face, pouring an orange Fanta in the general direction of his mouth, missing completely and soaking his bandage in the process.

Somehow, I don't think we'll be seeing him in the Fanta ads.

It was quickly apparent that Jenn (who, I must add, is a NICU nurse, and not really the first one you'd imagine taking care of a confused old man) had to focus completely on this guy, so we each took one of her other patients, giving me the barfing boy and four grownups with two dressings each to change.

Folks, I'm officially recovered from that arthritis, because I did not stop moving for eight hours straight. They were possibly the fastest eight hours of the past year, and only when it was over, Fanta Man tucked into bed with a clean gown and bandage, a new IV started on my little guy by Jenn (who is, honestly, a rockstar) and all of my tube feeds were given did I realize that I'm still a nurse.

I guess there are some things you don't forget, no matter how long it's been. Changing bandages and holding barf buckets and titrating morphine and juggling the needs of a whole row of people seems to be, at least for me, like riding a bike. I'm just hoping that tomorrow I can ride a little slower.

welcome!

I'm Ali, wife to Phil and mama to Zoe and Ethan. We spent the past 6 years living and working with Mercy Ships on board the world's largest non-governmental hospital ship, the M/V Africa Mercy, as nurse, electrician, and ship's baby respectively. On board the ship, we worked with a team of volunteers from over thirty different countries, providing free surgical care and healthcare development, bringing hope and healing to the forgotten poor in West and Central Africa.

In March of 2014, during a routine ultrasound, we found out that our son, Ethan, has a four-in-a-million condition known as heterotaxy. He has major congenital heart defects, and had his first open heart surgery before he was a week old. Although the future for our son and our family is uncertain, we are more than ever convinced that God will be faithful to lead and guide us through this new season the same way He has in the past.(I've had a big problem with spam comments around here and literally don't have the time to sort through all of them, so comments on all entries before Ethan's story began have been turned off to keep the numbers down. I moderate all comments on new entries, so don't worry if yours doesn't show up right away. If it won't let you post, please e-mail me at alirae[at]quist[dot]ca. I love hearing from you!)

ali (that's me!)

phil

zoe rae

ethan vikash

ethan's story

Due on the Fourth of July and born on Canada Day, Ethan has given us so much to celebrate. He had his first surgery when he was six days old and amazed the doctors by being ready to go home before he reached the two week mark. Heterotaxy can affect every organ system, but so far Ethan seems to have escaped some of the common complications. While his heart has a number of complex defects, it's working well so far. His intestines actually formed correctly, and his lungs and kidneys are all functioning well. He does have at least five spleens, and it's assumed that they do not function, so his immune system is most likely compromised; he will most likely be taking daily antibiotics for his whole life.

Here are a few links that might be helpful, since the medical side of things can get pretty confusing with a heart this special. The surgeries listed for each of his heart conditions don't necessarily apply in our case, since we have to look at the big picture, not just each individual defect; we're still waiting to see how his heart grows before we decide what the next step, which will probably taking place between 3-6 months, will be.